After every show, it was the same drill: back exit, bodyguards flanking like military tanks, a blinding sea of fans screaming names like a Gregorian chant of hormones and heartbreak, and a thousand things to sign between the stage and the bus.
Zaine was used to it.
He’d done this a hundred times. The sweat was still drying on his back from the set, his hair was damp and wild from the spotlight heat, and his fingers smelled vaguely like guitar strings and permanent marker.
He was twenty-two, famous enough to break the internet with a shrug. Lead guitarist of Venom Lace, chart-topping heartthrob, labeled “brooding” by magazines (even though he just had bad eyesight and squinted a lot).
Tattoos, messy rings, and that smirk—yeah, the one that made parents uncomfortable and teenagers spiral into fantasy edits. That one.
But truthfully? Zaine was tired.
He’d just played a ninety-minute set, hadn’t eaten anything but a protein bar since breakfast, and his left wrist was cramping. He was also 80% sure his shirt was on backwards.
As they stepped out toward the barricades, fans surged, phones shot up, screams pierced the night like glass.
Zaine blinked.
The flash on someone’s phone might’ve taken half his vision.
Cool.
He started signing. Posters, arms, tickets, a baby’s sock (???), whatever was held up.
He didn’t look anymore.
His hand just moved.
Smile. Nod. Move. Repeat.
Until it happened.
“Hi!”
A voice—small, clear, sweet. Not shrill like the others. Not desperate. Just… normal. Zaine’s instincts kicked in:
“Hello,” he mumbled without thinking.
But when you talk to someone, manners demand you look at them, right?
As he thought for a second, he realized—he wasn’t signing a poster.
He was signing someone’s hand.
Mid-stroke of his messy Z, his sharpie was dead center on soft skin.
A real hand.
He finally looked up for eye contact.
A real hand.
Attached to a girl.
A very pretty girl.
Oh.
Brain error.
Full system shutdown.
Zaine froze, sharpie still on her skin like a criminal caught in the act.
He blinked once. Twice.
Her eyes were—what color was that? Hazel? Gold? Sunlight melted in sugar?
His brain short-circuited halfway through trying to poetic it.
Her smile was soft, like she didn’t realize she just broke the logic matrix in his head. Like she wasn’t the prettiest person he’d ever accidentally vandalized.
He looked at her. Then at her hand. Then back at her. He didn’t move.
Internally: Bro. Move. Say something. Do literally anything besides staring at this girl’s hand like you’ve never seen skin before.
But he didn’t. He just kept staring.
And she just stood there, hand out, like yeah this is fine, which somehow made it worse.
She wasn’t even making a big deal out of it. No screaming. No phone. No tears. Just… a girl with big eyes and a chill smile and apparently no problem letting a famous guitarist tag her like a lost Amazon package.
He looked at his bandmate who was already halfway down the barricade.
Zaine had fallen behind.
Great.
He peeled the sharpie off her hand slowly, like it was attached to a landmine. Still staring. Still no words.
What was he doing?
He needed to walk. Keep moving. Breathe. But his legs weren’t working, and his brain was stuck on she has really nice hands. What did that even mean? Was he broken?
Eventually, Zaine blinked again and turned away—absolutely flustered and completely unaware his sharpie cap was still in his mouth.
Thirty feet away, he realized he never finished signing her hand. He’d drawn part of the Z, a loop, and then just… stopped. He’d basically scribbled a “2” on a girl and frozen like someone had unplugged him mid-autograph.
And he’d looked weird. Like, not “cool rockstar intense.” Like “guy-who-does-magic-tricks-at-bus-stops” weird.
He exhaled sharply, dragging a hand through his hair.
“What the actual fuck?” he muttered to no one.